


Something Real

by AJ_Lenoire



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Book/Movie 2: Catching Fire, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, I Mean This Series Always Has Angst, Last Day On Earth, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 05:49:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18794230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJ_Lenoire/pseuds/AJ_Lenoire
Summary: On their last night before the third Quarter Quell, Katniss has accepted her commitment to Peeta; that she will die for him in the Games. But before she goes into the Arena, and once more her every moment is under intense scrutiny, she wants to take advantage of her last moments of freedom, and make something real.





	Something Real

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been listening to the Hunger Games books on loop for like a month so I had to get a lil scene like this out…
> 
> Sooo this story stemmed partially from me wanting a little more overt romance between Peeta and Katniss (way to _totally_ miss the point of the books, AJ…) and partially wanting to try out writing in first-person.
> 
>  The first ~500 words of this is copied verbatim from _Catching Fire_ because I wanted to get into the mindset of writing first-person—which I don't do in any of my original fiction—and I like to emulate the style of what I’m parodying, at least a little. Also it provides a clear indication of exactly where in the book this takes place.

 

Peeta and I hurry to the window and try to make sense of the commotion far below us on the streets. “What are they saying?” Peeta asks. “Are they asking the president to stop the Games?”

“I don’t think they know themselves what to ask. The whole situation is unprecedented. Even the idea of opposing the Capitol’s agenda is a source of confusion for the people here,” says Haymitch. “But there’s no way Snow would cancel the Games. You know that, right?”

I do. Of course, he could never back down now. The only option left to him is to strike back, and strike back hard. “The others went home?” I ask.

“They were ordered to. I don’t know how much luck they’re having getting through the mob,” says Haymitch.

“Then we’ll never see Effie again,” says Peeta. We didn’t see her on the morning of the Games last year. “You’ll give her our thanks.”

“More than that. Really make it special. It’s Effie, after all,” I say. “Tell her how appreciative we are and how she was the best escort ever and tell her ... tell her we send our love.”

For a while we just stand there in silence, delaying the inevitable. Then Haymitch says it. “I guess this is where we say our good-byes as well.”

“Any last words of advice?” Peeta asks.

“Stay alive,” Haymitch says gruffly. That’s almost an old joke with us now. He gives us each a quick embrace, and I can tell it’s all he can stand. “Go to bed. You need your rest.”

I know I should say a whole bunch of things to Haymitch, but I can’t think of anything he doesn’t already know, really, and my throat is so tight I doubt anything would come out, anyway. So, once again, I let Peeta speak for us both.

“You take care, Haymitch,” he says.

We cross the room, but in the doorway, Haymitch’s voice stops us. “Katniss, when you’re in the arena,” he begins. Then he pauses. He’s scowling in a way that makes me sure I’ve already disappointed him.

“What?” I ask defensively.

“You just remember who the enemy is,” Haymitch tells me. “That’s all. Now go on. Get out of here.” We walk down the hallway. Peeta wants to stop by his room to shower off the makeup and meet me in a few minutes, but I won’t let him. I’m certain that if a door shuts between us, it will lock and I’ll have to spend the night without him. Besides, I have a shower in my room. I refuse to let go of his hand.

Do we sleep? I don’t know. For several hours, we just lie there, holding each other, inhabiting some strange halfway-world between sleep and waking. I don’t want to say anything in case I wake Peeta, and steal from him those precious minutes of sleep if he’s lucky enough to get some. His arms are strong and warm, and normally I’d have little trouble drifting off before I’ve even woken from a nightmare yet, but I know that sleep will not come for me tonight.

At last, the urge to say something is too great. I want to hear Peeta’s voice, see his eyes look into mine, so I whisper his name.

“Peeta?” My voice is barely audible. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” comes the reply, only fractionally louder than mine. “I didn’t want to say anything. In case you were asleep.”

“Same here,” I admit. I turn so I’m facing him, looking into those bright blue eyes. He’s a Victor, and he’s going to be a Victor again, if I have anything to say about it, but those eyes will never be like mine. Dark, guarded, but most of all, the eyes of a killer. Not make-up or fake fire or the Games themselves could make those eyes deadly. I remember what Peeta had said last year, the night before the Games, how he hadn’t wanted them to change him. I understand, now, what he meant, and I hope that when he goes home, he’ll be able to find himself again. Without me.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“Home,” I say. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth, either.

“Do you miss your family?”

I nod. I’ve said my goodbyes to them, privately. I’ve let them go and have emptied myself of their love. But I still miss them. I can’t deny that. I’ll never see them again, and I miss them.

“Do you miss yours?” All this thinking about my feelings threatens to bowl me over, and I’m eager to deflect the attention away from myself. Plus, I’ve never really heard Peeta talk about his family, and never met them, either. His father, I know somewhat, but no more than anyone else with whom I trade.

Peeta gives a small nod, but doesn’t look at me. “I guess,” he says. “But it’s like missing someone you haven’t seen in years. They didn’t come with me to the Village, they stayed in the bakery… I don’t think they wanted all that much to do with me, after I came home.” He frowns.

I look up at him, my eyes wide. “Why not?” I know Peeta lives alone in his house, but he still spends time at the bakery, right? He’s been bringing me and Haymitch baked goods for months. For some reason, I try to remember if the oven in our kitchen is particularly fancy. If someone who baked professionally would consider it good. Probably. The Victors’ Village is about as prestigious as technology and luxury can get, outside the Capitol.

But Peeta shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe after they said their goodbyes, they didn’t know how to deal with me coming back alive. Maybe they didn’t like what I did in the Arena.”

“Peeta,” I say. “You didn’t kill anyone.” Not like I did, I think.

“Not technically, I suppose,” he admits. “But I don’t think they cared about that. The girl from 9, Foxface, Cato… I had a hand in all their deaths. I helped the people who killed them, even if I didn’t kill them myself. And after that… I think they’d rather I was dead.”

I’m speechless, absolutely speechless, when he’s done talking. The moment I’d come home, I’d been overjoyed to see Prim and my mother again. I’d actually killed, killed children, but all they’d seen was my nightmares afterwards, how I’d put myself back together and fall apart again, over and over and over.

Then again, my family were used to me killing. Not people. But they were used to my bow ending lives. Maybe, because of that, they’d understood it better—certainly than Peeta’s family, who fed pigs rather than slaughtered them, who weren’t as aware as my family of the things one might have to do to survive.

I don’t enjoy killing. My family knows that. Unlike brutal, bloody Cato, I didn’t grin when my weapons ended lives, I didn’t laugh and mock my victims. That was the difference. I killed to survive. But it seems that isn’t a distinction worth making to Peeta’s family.

I want to say something to Peeta. I want to tell him that he can forget them, because I’ll be his family—me and Haymitch and Prim and my mother. But then I remember that I’ll be dead.

“It’s okay, Katniss,” he tells me, before I can reply. I’m almost grateful for that, because even though I’ve opened my mouth, I don’t know what words will come out, if any come out at all. I close my mouth, swallow, and offer something different instead.

“Are you scared?” I ask.

“About tomorrow? Not really.” He gives a shrug. “It’s not that different to my last Games.”

His words are calm and sweet, but it’s as if he’s punched me in the gut. I’d almost forgotten that. As hard as I’m fighting to keep Peeta alive, he’s fighting to keep _me_ alive.

I know this is going to turn into a long, painful argument if I reply, and Peeta’s so skilled with words that I know he’d just turn everything around until I’m confused and angry. So, before he can say anything else, I lean in, and stop his words with a kiss.

As I pull away, I tell him, “Please, don’t,” in a small, almost ashamed voice. Because I don’t want him to. It’s my last night— _our_ last night—outside of the Arena, and I don’t want to spend it arguing with the only person I know I can trust in there.

Peeta’s eyes are soft and sad. “Okay,” he says softly, “I won’t.” And he pulls me toward him, and it feels so good to be in his arms. I allow myself a moment of selfishness, and silently hope that when I die, it will be in his arms so he can hold me, one last time.

With any luck, I’ll be able to kill off the rest of the competition so that, like last year, only the two of us are left standing. I’m much faster and much better at killing than Peeta.

“Katniss,” Peeta then says, drawing me from my thoughts.

“Mm?”

“Remember the Victory Tour? The Capitol party, and those glasses that would make you puke?”

I remember. It’s strange for how pretty they were, how non-deadly considering how they’re burned into my brain for the rest of my—frankly rather short—life. People stuffing themselves with food only so they could throw it up and do it all over again. My blood boils at the thought of all that decadence, all the while I know children are starving all over Panem.

“What about them?” I manage to keep my voice fairly neutral.

“Afterwards, I asked you to dance. And I told you… something.” I know what he means, but he’s smart not to say it out loud. This might be my bedroom, but we’re still in the Capitol. He’d told me his frustration, how he could sometimes lull himself into thinking that the Capitol wasn’t so bad. I’ve fallen into that trap myself, and I’ve been caught in that strange place, conflicting memories of my prep team both watching in awe as my mother teaches them how to braid my hair, and laughing at the idea of vomiting for the sake of eating more food.

Peeta had said maybe it wasn’t the worst thing that the districts were rebelling. Those words both chill me and invigorate me. I was so scared for him—still am, really. But I agreed.

“I remember,” I say. “And I do, too.”

To anyone who might be listening, it sounds as though I’m returning his love. But we both know better. Peeta stiffens, and holds me just a little tighter. This brings a strange feeling to me, not one I can quite identify, but it’s a pleasant feeling, and I lie beside him comfortably.

“It got me thinking,” he goes on. “About… you and me. How we’d have to marry, have children. How we would only be safe if we did that. And I realised… I didn’t want that.”

What? I turn to look at him, baffled. Peeta, his love of me has always been so sure—honestly, it’s one of the few things I’m really sure of in this world. His love for me, my love for Prim. Does he not love me anymore? I suppose he’s well within his right to, I’ve never been all too forgiving with the affection myself when the cameras are off, but this is so abrupt that I’m not quite sure what to make of it.

Surely he wouldn’t turn off the romance for the cameras, would he? Or maybe he would. I’m just coming to the conclusion that this must be some ploy for the sponsors to lose their sympathy with him—the heartless young man who knocked up a girl and left her high and dry, in the Games, no less—when he goes on.

“Not if we couldn’t choose,” he says.

Once more, I’m stopped in my tracks, and I blink several times, my mouth opening and closing like a fish. “I—what do you mean?” I managed to stammer out.

“I love you,” he says. “And maybe you love me, but here, you can’t choose. You might be doing it to keep Prim safe, or your mother, or Gale.”

“I’d tell you, Peeta,” I say quietly. My voice sounds so small. Because truly, I am done lying to him, my ally. We might disagree, but we _are_ honest with each other. Of that much, I’m sure.

But he shakes his head. “You wouldn’t even know yourself, I think,” he tells me. “You’d convince yourself for your sake, your family’s sake—for my sake. Even if you don’t love me, I know you don’t want to see me hurt. But if you can’t _choose_ to be with me… What’s the point? I’d feel like I was holding you prisoner, that you’d hate every second I was with you.”

This is too much, and I glare at him as I take his face in my hands. “I could never hate you,” I say fiercely, and I can see that it’s not the ferocity that convinces him, but the slight tremor in my voice.

He’s right that I can’t choose—or, couldn’t. I suppose I still don’t get to choose now, but that’s because I’ll be dead. And I know I’ve been wrestling with the idea that I don’t know, I _can’t_ know if I truly loved him, if I ever did or ever would, unless I had the option of turning him down.

Gale’s face pops into my mind, and I bite my bottom lip. I know I love him, but I couldn’t say what type of love that is. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. I’ve said my goodbyes.

Thinking about Peeta’s words, I decide that the only thing I’m confident of is that I hate all these feelings, because all they seem to do is hurt the people I love the most.

Looking back up at him, I want to tell Peeta that he’s wrong, but we _have_ agreed to be honest with each other, and the truth is that I don’t know. I don’t know who I would choose if I could, and I don’t know if I love him.

“I could love you,” I say quietly. I’m pretty convinced of that, actually. He’s an easy person to love, the boy with the bread. I remember our stop in District 11, when he offered Rue and Thresh’s grieving families our money. I remember thinking how I couldn’t possibly do any better.

“I believe you believe that,” he tells me, and I know he doesn’t mean it that way, but it feels like an insult. “But that’s not what I want, and it’s not what you deserve. You deserve someone you _know_ you love. And I know all this doesn’t matter now, because one of us is going to die out there—” _Me_ , I think. _It will be me if I have to knock you out and trap you in a cave to keep you safe again._ “—but I wanted you to know. If we were ever going to… do all that, I’d want you to choose me because you wanted to, not because you were scared what would happen if you didn’t.”

I consider his words, then say, “I know you’re trying to be nice, Peeta, but it doesn’t matter.” Because, really, it doesn’t. “Even if we hadn’t had to go back into the Arena… the Capitol wouldn’t let us. Snow was already planning our wedding.”

“Young love is fleeting,” he tells me. “These violent delights have violent ends.”

I frown at that. He says it like he’s quoting something, but I can’t think what. And what are ‘violent delights’ anyway? The Games? They _do_ have violent ends. But for some reason, I think he means young love.

I’ve never been in love. Or at least, I don’t think I have, and now I suppose I’ll never really know. But the idea of love as ‘violent’… that’s not at all what I’ve thought love is. Love is kind and sweet, it’s someone you can trust absolutely, who knows you better than you know yourself. It’s warm arms around you, soothing words in your ear, and a feeling in your chest as if your heart might burst.

Then I think of _young_ love, and how passionate it is, how Haymitch has been playing that angle, how me and Peeta have been in lust for the cameras almost as much as we’ve been in love. I realise he means that we could break up. After President Snow dies, and a new President is elected; one who’ll no doubt hate me, too, but more as a matter of principle than personal vendetta. Once again, it doesn’t matter, because I’m going to be dead soon.

And then I think of my description of love, and realise all I’ve done is describe Peeta.

I swallow and turn to look at him again, gazing into those blue eyes. “You’re not violent,” I say. My throat is tight and I’m sure my voice sounds strangled, like I’m fighting off tears.

I have tried my hardest to forget Gale, my best friend and possibly, in another lifetime, something more. I’ll be dead in a matter of days, maybe even hours, and I’ll never see him again. All he’ll see of me, before they return my cold, stiff body to District 12 in a box, will be what they broadcast on the Games, and even then he’ll assume everything he sees is for show. I can’t hurt him, now. I can’t hurt any of them anymore.

In that respect, the notion of my imminent death is liberating. But much like everything in the Capitol, it’s bittersweet. I’ll die in a matter of days, but in the meantime, I am absolutely free to choose.

And in that moment of realisation, I realise I choose Peeta. Not because I have to, not because Snow will kill my entire family and myself if I don’t, but because I really, truly want to. Want _him_.

Peeta must see something in my expression change, because he shifts against me like he’s trying to get comfortable, and his eyes are bright with curiosity.

“Katniss—” he begins, but I stop his lips with a kiss, and when I pull away, I shake my head. I know what he’s going to say, what he’s going to ask.

“The Games start tomorrow,” I say, and that’s all I need to say before he understands. Peeta’s talent with words goes far beyond the ones he says. It’s only one word, but I know he understands me, no doubt because he feels the same. Everything around us—the Games, the Capitol, and in some ways, the two of us—is fake. Silly, frivolous and a veneer for something ugly and vicious. And yes, I am including myself in that description—but perhaps not Peeta. I killed in the Arena. Glimmer, Marvel, the girl from District 4.

For a moment, I am distracted as I wonder what Finnick Odair thought of that, if he holds that against me. I suppose I’ll find out in the morning.

But my point stands, and I look desperately into Peeta’s eyes. I want something real. Before I go into the Arena, where everything is Gamemaker-made, and even my relationship to the boy with the bread—who I’m not entirely sure if I love, because he’s right in that, how can I know for sure when the Capitol is forcing us to be together, but certainly care for dearly—is blown up to appropriately dramatic extremes, I want something real.

I want to make a real choice, and I have made it.

So he nods. “Okay,” he whispers, and he when he leans in to kiss me, I’m happy to oblige.

I feel that thing again—that strange sensation in our first Games, the only kiss out of hundred I’ve shared with Peeta that stirred something within me. The only kiss that made me want another.

But this time, there is no head wound to make me dizzy, no blood to make Peeta worry, and no Gamemakers to watch us, exploit us for the cameras. We have several hours until the dawn, until a new day comes and I will have to face the Capitol’s artificial everything again, and my own impending death. I am lucky to have that much, and I intend to make the most of it.

And I soon become aware that I’d be content to lie here, kissing Peeta, forever. Instead of satiating my desire, it only becomes greater. This is a hunger unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, even though between my time in District 12 and the Arena, I consider myself something of an expert.

My hand is on Peeta’s chest as we kiss, feeling his heartbeat, and how its steady rhythm is quickening, as if he’s nervous. My other arm is propping me up so I can reach his lips, and his arms are firm around me, but respectful. He’s not pulling me closer, even though I’m sure he wants to. He’s waiting for me to make that choice. Is it because he still isn’t sure if I care for him, or because he doesn’t want to push me?

I’m reminded of all the nights we’ve spent together, holding one another because it was just too unbearable to face the nightmares alone. Peeta loves me, and maybe wanted more from those nights, but he never pushed, never tried anything, never did anything but hold me close.

But there were times, namely those few occasions when I took a bit longer to fall asleep, or my nightmares were mild enough so that I woke without thrashing, that I wondered. I’d feel his warm, broad arms around my waist, soft breaths tickling the back of my neck, the curve of his body fitting against mine. And I’d wonder.

Now, I intend to find out, so I shift upwards, pushing myself against him just a little more, letting him know what I want. That I want the same as him.

That I want _him_.

But still, Peeta is holding back. Even though I know he wants this, he’s hesitating. Is he still unsure of my conviction? Does he still believe I don’t care for him?

No, I think. No, he’s waiting for my response. He wants me to want him. And I do.

I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down against me, and he groans, his embrace tightening around me. Now, he responds to my touch eagerly, and there’s an element of relief to it that makes me feel cruel and ashamed. But there’s no place for such things tonight, and it’s as if he can sense how I feel, because he pulls away to caress my face, and in his eyes I see understanding and comfort.

He’s so good, so unbelievably good, that for a moment I think I might burst into tears. Because I have done nothing to deserve the love he gives me, and the best thing I can do is die for him, and even that will break his heart.

So I kiss him again, cupping his face in my hands and holding his lips to mine. I’ve never really noticed that people can have tastes before, but I notice now. Under all the Capitol perfumes and decadent food, Peeta tastes undeniably like fresh bread, and of something I can only describe as home, something unique to District 12.

This time, we respond to each other not just eagerly, but comfortably. It’s never been awkward for us, kissing, but this is the most natural it’s ever felt. We shift in unison, moving closer to one another, and when my shirt inches up, Peeta runs his finger along the thin strip of skin that’s laid bare.

Thanks to the ruthlessness of my prep-team, my skin is smooth and hairless, and for all it went through to get that way, in this moment I’m glad for it, because I never realised how good something as simple as a hand sliding over my skin could feel. But it does feel so very good.

Like myself, Peeta underwent a full body polish after our first Games, and all his scars, including those from years of working in his family’s bakery, are gone. His hands are soft and gentle as he holds me tight against him, but there’s an underlying… I don’t want to say ‘force’, because Peeta is so rarely forceful, and never about stuff like this, but there’s a certain urgency to how he moves and touches me. Something not controlled by his mind, but his body.

I wonder if that urgency is stoked by the kiss, just like whatever’s happening to me—making my thirst for kisses greater with each one I give, instead of lesser. All I know for sure is that whatever’s driving him is also driving me, because each stroke of his hands over my skin is like fire in my veins, and I’m pushing myself against him as if I can get close enough, hold him tight enough, that we might become one.

I’m not exactly sure how or when, but the next thing I know, my legs are either side of Peeta’s hips and I’m lying beneath him. Rather than crushing and uncomfortable, his weight is actually rather pleasant, and it sends a thrill through my body, like when I’m on a hunt. My shirt is bunched up around my ribs, my stomach bare, but all I can feel is Peeta’s shirt. My hands wander along his shoulders, down his broad back, and I smile against his mouth when the muscles spasm slightly, unused to gentle, teasing touches such as these. I force myself not to think of the implications of that, what kind of touches he _is_ used to.

I stroke my way down his back, along his flanks, until I come to the hem of his shirt and lift it up slightly. I pull away from our kiss to give him a questioning expression, a wry smile playing at my lips as I raise my eyebrows. Peeta’s eyes sparkle with amusement and something else, something darker and deeper, as he leans up, sitting back on his heels so I can pull the shirt up and over his head.

Tossing it aside, I take a moment to look at him in the half light. I put a hand to his bare chest and feel how warm the skin is, marvel at how I can feel the beat of his heart so clearly. Peeta gazes at me, his lips swollen from kisses, blond curls tousled, his eyes shining bright with a kind of madness. I lick my lips slightly, my mouth dry as I look at him, struck by how beautiful he is. I find that I want nothing more than to have him pressed against me, and kiss him forever. So I do.

I push my hand a little more insistently, and he obediently lies back on the bed so this time, it’s my weight atop his. He doesn’t seem to mind, his arms tight around my waist as my hands glide over the smooth expanse of his torso, feeling the slight swell of his muscles. The months of training like careers has only accented his broad, stocky build, and I take my time exploring every line, every edge, committing them to memory.

On a moment of impulse, I tear my lips from Peeta’s and fasten them onto his neck, kissing the point where his pulse is thrumming just under his skin, and the weak groan that escapes him sends a bolt of electricity that concentrates right at my abdomen. I know this feeling, but never before has it been a result of anyone’s actions but my own.

Peeta doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, now. He strokes my hair, hugs me at the waist, holds me against him by the hips. For a long time, I never really understood what all the fuss was about, doing things like this, but now I do. Not just the pleasure you seek for yourself, but the things you can do to someone else; watching them come apart.

When I catch the skin of his neck between my teeth and nip, the shameless moan that echoes in the room comes from my mouth. Peeta still has a firm grasp on my hips, and bucks up into me on instinct when I bite him. I can’t swallow the small moan that it brings, and the sensation, the pressure there, is peculiar, but I like it.

That sound is like a switch, because the moment it’s out there, Peeta’s touches become more insistent, his kisses deeper, and before I know it I’m dizzy with these strange feelings, lost in the sensation of Peeta wrapped around me. I feel both safe and exposed at the same time, and all I know for sure is that all these nice things are not enough. I want more.

When his hands play at the waistband of my pyjama pants, I shuffle them off without breaking our kiss. I immediately go to do the same to him, and that _does_ require us to part, so I trail tiny, quick kisses down his chest and stomach until I come to his hips, pressing a long, lingering kiss on his hipbone. I look up at him, and his eyes are dark pools, and he swallows like he’s afraid to move.

I crawl back up over him, Peeta in just his boxers, myself in my panties and t-shirt, and the difference a little more exposure makes is striking. He’s so warm all over, so strong and sure, I think I’d be content to stay in his arms forever if not for this burning desire in my chest.

Something presses into my stomach, and I know before I look down and see the bulge in Peeta’s underwear what it will be. As I look back up to him, I see he’s flushed red, embarrassed, but I only grin, and kiss him again, pulling him so he’s sat upright and I’m in his lap, my weight resting directly on top of him. Because of the angle, I feel that pressure against me again, and move my hips against it. I do this for my benefit, but from the sounds he makes and the way he moves in kind, I realise Peeta likes it, too. His breaths are dry and raw, and he groans into the crook of my neck as I move, his arms wrapped around me so tightly I think I might break.

I’m not sure how much time we spend kissing—sat up, lying down, side by side—but we take our time. Peeta gives me a hesitant look when he moves his hand under my shirt and rests it on the bare skin of my stomach. I meet his gaze and with an unexpected surge of confidence I strip my shirt off entirely and throw it aside like I did with his, and I watch him struggle not to gape before mischief sparkles in his eyes, and he grins, cupping the back of my neck and brining me close for yet another kiss. I’m still not satisfied, even after all these kisses, when I twine my arms around his neck, tangling my hands in his hair, it’s still not enough, even then.

Peeta breaks away from our kiss and pulls my braid over my shoulder, undoing the tie at the bottom. I’d put it in it’s braid when I’d gotten changed into my sleeping clothes, but I let him undo it and tease out my hair. After two weeks in the Capitol, all the creams and soaps Cinna and my prep-team have put in it have left it wavy, silken and soft. Peeta smiles at me.

“You look beautiful with your hair down,” he says. “I mean, you look beautiful regardless, but you should wear it like that more often.”

I don’t like the implication that I’ll have the chance to wear it like this, but I don’t say that aloud. For a moment, I’m also perplexed—does he not realise how impractical it is to have your hair loose? I suppose he doesn’t, and then I realise that that’s not his point. He point is just that he likes it. For some reason, this has me blushing.

With a chuckle, Peeta kisses me, but on the cheek, as if marking the blush. I open my mouth to ask what he’s doing, but a small whine comes out instead, because he’s kissing my neck now, and it feels better than I ever would’ve thought.

In fact, I’m a little embarrassed by it, because now those noises at the back of my throat have no one to swallow them. I’ve never realised how sensitive my throat is, but I’m running my fingers through his hair and arching into him, feeling shocks of electricity shoot through me when he wraps his arms ever tighter around my waist.

I might shatter, I think. Then let me. Let me shatter into tiny pieces so Peeta can touch me with his tender, gentle hands, touch every part of me. He is the only person left for me, now. The only person I can trust.

The first brush of Peeta’s fingers between my legs makes me yelp, and he freezes, looking up at me with wide, terrified eyes, as if he’s done something wrong. I flush red, and not trusting myself to speak, nod. His smile is wry as he brushes there again, over the damp cotton, and something warm and aching pools in my stomach, and I know the only way to alleviate this want, this _need_ inside me is to get more. More of Peeta.

He establishes a rhythm to how he moves, and it’s on instinct that my hips seem to follow him. His other hand goes to my breast, massaging gently, running his thumb over the nipple and I arch into him, only barely hearing his moan as I myself whine his name; begging him not to stop.

I’ve never really talked about sex with anyone, but some things you just learn. You overhear them with others, you’re saturated in it so lightly you don’t even realise what you’re learning. So I’m expecting pain and blood, but when Peeta pushes two fingers inside me, the discomfort is much less than I anticipated. He moves them in a rhythm that’s almost but not quite what I want—no, what I _need_ —and I guide him with gentle movements until he learns me, until I’m shameless and panting, grinding down on his hand because it feels so good, but it’s not enough, it’s not nearly enough. I’m impatient as the pressure starts to build inside of me, and I’m set chasing after a release. He ducks his head to trail kisses across my collar and down my chest, and when he nips lightly at my breast I hiss, carding my fingers through his hair and holding him against me.

I know the noises I’m making are louder, now. They’re more insistent and wanton, and I can barely think straight—no, I _can’t_ think straight. I’m consumed by the need to find that release, and if Peeta stops moving, stops holding me, I’m sure I’ll die on the spot.

Then let me, I think again. Let me die, here and now, privately and in the arms of someone who loves me, instead of it being televised for mass entertainment.

But I cannot protect Peeta if I die here. Luckily, it seems he has no intention of stopping, and I’m grinding against him so hard, wrapping my legs around his hips and pulling him towards me when my muscles start spasming and I lose control of myself, and the world goes up in a flash of light.

Peeta, I think, and then for a moment I can’t think at all. The next thing I know, I’m limp on the bed, panting as if I’ve just finished a race, and Peeta is gaping at me, eyes bright with lust. He’s staring like he’s never seen anything else so beautiful, like he’s never wanted anything else so much. I feel myself go red, and look away, but he catches my face in one hand, gently but firmly making me look him in the eye, and smile at me.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

Not as beautiful as you, I think. But I don’t say it out loud, because I know he’ll just start protesting, and eventually he’ll scoop me up into a hug and shower me with kisses, and whilst I admit—privately, to myself—that I like when he does that, it’s not what I want right now. And I don’t think it’s what he wants, either.

So I move forwards, reaching out to hold him in my arms and kiss him. When he responds, making small whining noises, my hand goes lower, and I brush him through his boxers, and he gasps into my mouth.

As I did with him, he show me the rhythm he needs, and it’s not long before he’s moaning into the crook of my neck, shaking, when he stops me.

“W—wait,” he mumbled, taking my wrist.

“But—” I start, and she shakes his head. Then I understand. I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me, and he grins at me, and leans in to plant a quick kiss on my lips.

Over the past several months, the trail of naked men that have been spread out on our kitchen table, all sporting wounds of varying severity, has pretty much completely desensitised me to nakedness—or so I’d thought. I can’t help but watch—stare, really—when Peeta removes his boxers. Unlike the men who are brought to my mother, Peeta isn’t bleeding so much his entire body is scarlet, or missing a huge chunk of his body from an explosion, or half his face from shrapnel gouging at his eyes. Peeta, as always, is beautiful. And I’ve never seen a beautiful person naked before.

At the same time, even as I undress, too, I feel slightly embarrassed. I’ve been naked in front of people, before, but somehow my prep-team—and even Cinna—don’t seem quite the same. In those cases, it was almost clinical, about making me look pretty. This is something completely new, and for a moment I want to wrap my arms around myself and hide, but Peeta catches my wrist and smiles.

“You sure?” he asks me. I can’t help but smile at how much he cares for me. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

I lean forwards and kiss him. “You won’t,” I say. And I know he won’t. He’s not capable of hurting me. “I’m sure.” That nervousness vanishes when I come back into his arms and realise just how good it feels to have nothing between us, how warm his skin is, how strong his arms are.

We get under the comforter, because the room is just a little too cold when you’re unclothed. He settles himself between my knees, and flashes a nervous smile. I’m suddenly curious, and I ask, “Have you ever done this before?”

He shakes his head. “Have you?”

I shake mine. I wonder if maybe he thought I had, because of Gale, but he doesn’t react when I say no, only giving me another look as if to say, are you _really_ sure?

As touches as I am by his concern, I’m getting impatient now. The aching between my legs is insistent, and I’m inclined to agree. So, I push Peeta until he rolls onto his back, and I settle on top of him. Looking him dead in the eye, I lower myself onto him, and a guttural moan escapes us both.

It’s different to his fingers; larger, obviously, and for that the sensation is a little different. The feeling of being filled is unexpected, and almost comforting. As if I’m somehow being completed in a way I didn’t know I was lacking.

Instinct seems to drive us both from there. I move my hips back and forth, getting used to this strange feeling, and am entranced by how each movement seems to drive Peeta wild. His hands dig into my hips, he bites his lip, bucks up into me—and now that action has me keening. We begin to move faster and more insistent, each searching for a release, and I’m consumed by the need to have him deeper inside me, to hear those raw noises he makes again and again.

I lean forwards, bracing my hands on his chest, his shoulders, the mattress beneath us. He wraps one arm around my back, holding me against him as he move. Every muscle in his body is working, his skin hot and slick with sweat, both of us gasping for air between the long, low moans as something inside of us builds and builds. He’s more beautiful than I ever thought it possible for someone to be.

“Please,” I whine to him, pressing our foreheads together, even though I know he has no intention of stopping. “Peeta—”

His hand dives down between us, finding that place I showed him earlier, and it’s this that sends me over the edge, into the whiteness. I tense around him, mouth open in a silent cry, and I feel Peeta kissing me. A moment later I’m aware of him bucking his hips one last time before letting out a long groan and going limp, sinking into the bed.

I move only to pull myself off of him, and lazily curl up beside him without any attempt to fetch my clothes. We’re both breathing hard, and for several minutes we just lie there, my head on his chest, trying to pant less as I listen to his heartrate return to it’s normal, steady rhythm. The world is fuzzy around the edges, and everything seems a little brighter, as if my senses are suddenly heightened.

Now, I think I understand what all the fuss is about.

We lie there for what feels like hours, until we cool down and the sheen of sweat over us becomes slightly unpleasant feeling. My movements stiff, I get out of bed and walk towards my bathroom, then after a moment, hold out my hand to Peeta. He looks at me, then at my hand, then at me again.

I give a small laugh. “There’s nothing you haven’t already seen,” I say. He chuckles, ducking his head as he admits I’m right, then follows me.

I’m initially hesitant, because of his prosthetic, but Peeta assures me that it’s completely waterproof and a shower hasn’t damaged it yet. I’m somewhat relieved, because there’s no seat in the bathroom or in my bedroom, and I’m not sure how I’d go about holding him up on the slippery tiles, and when he’d need at least one hand free to wash himself.

The warm spray feel nice on my skin, but Peeta washing my hair feels even nicer. As ever, his touch is gentle and sweet, and he keeps ducking his head to plant little kisses on my exposed skin. My shoulder, the inside of my wrist, my temple.

I laugh as I reach up to brush his wet hair back from his face, and take a moment to admire how beautiful he is, shining in the water, his eyes so bright it’s like they’ve been polished. For a few minutes, I almost entirely forget about what awaits us at sunrise.

Afterwards, once more clean and dry, we find our clothes, redress, and get into bed. I find my familiar position in Peeta’s arms, and if I’m snuggling a little closer, or he hugs me a little tighter, I don’t blame either of us. Maybe it’s because we’ve been distracted by each other, or maybe because we’ve exhausted one another, but sleep seems to be willing to come to us now, and my eyelids grow heavy. Perhaps I _can_ steal a few hours rest. One last gift Peeta can give me.

I’m just about to drift off when Peeta whispers my name.

“Katniss,” he says, and I look up at him. There’s a pause before he opens his mouth and says, very seriously, “I love you.”

I stare at him for a moment, and realise that automatically I’ve opened my mouth to say something, but I don’t know what, and no words come out. I want to answer him, I want to say it back so badly it hurts, but he was right, earlier. Unless I’m free to make that choice, I don’t know what that choice would be.

“It’s alright,” he tells me, and holds me close. His embrace is warm and strong as ever, and I feel safe here. “I just wanted to say it. Just once.” Just once before we go into the Arena, where all our words will be recorded and none can be trusted. Just once before we go back out into the real world, where no matter how either of us truly feel, our love will be a lie; a performance for the Capitol.

Just once, before I die.

**Author's Note:**

> So throughout writing this I was remembering Carolyn McCormick’s voice—as she reads the versions of the audiobooks I was listening to, and she makes a fantastic Katniss—and trying to imagine each sentence in her voice; could I imagine Katniss saying this? 
> 
> Nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed this, and I hope I managed to convincingly imitate Katniss’ voice.


End file.
